


It's Called Fashion

by Yuripaws



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fashion & Couture, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Photo Shoots, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 12:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12410214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuripaws/pseuds/Yuripaws
Summary: Yuuri, Viktor, and Yurio arrive to their photo shoot for fashion magazine Numéro TOKYO.





	It's Called Fashion

**Author's Note:**

> The new official art came out and I somehow played myself into writing a stupid fic for it LMAOOO
> 
> Here's the link, for those who haven't seen it! Includes the real life outfits.
> 
> https://twitter.com/soukatsu_/status/920771635480801280
> 
> In more relevant news: I'll be updating New Tricks and (most likely) Requiem this weekend! I promise I'm doing things, I swear...

“It’s called _fashion,_ Yuuri!”

Yuuri’s sure it’s called a lot of things, but he isn’t sure ‘fashion’ is one of them. Then again, he isn’t exactly a man of culture. He eyes the outfit laid neatly across the small couch in the dressing room a little warily, not quite sure how to feel about it. While no stranger to the concept of all-black -- his Eros costume is a testament to that, and he wears it well -- there’s something somehow more daunting about the very insanely expensive ensemble waiting for him. He’s certain it costs more than his entire life, and maybe his entire family’s lives, too.

And what the _hell_ is with that giant safety pin, anyway?

Viktor had parroted a bunch of names at him -- brands, popular ones that Yuuri’s blissfully unaware of, and probably for the better. As much as he secretly enjoys these promotional photo shoots, there’s just something about the world of fashion that he can’t really wrap his head around.

In any case, his head is currently stuck in the hole of this goddamned turtleneck, but before he can flail uselessly, he feels large and leather-clad hands against him, yanking down the fabric and nearly sending his glasses flying.

“Sorry!” Viktor says cheerfully, pecking his freed forehead. “Come on, hurry up! Yurio’s already done.”

“Fuck off,” Yurio says reflexively from the corner, not looking up from his phone. He cuts a surprisingly elegant figure in his fine crimson suit, and Yuuri takes a moment to wonder why it’s always _him_ who gets stuck with the strangest outfits.

Speaking of strange, Viktor looks like he’s cosplaying something straight out of a dystopian-punk anime. The oversized red -- _blood orange_ , comes Viktor’s reproachful voice in his head -- coat certainly seems like something a badass gun-toting protagonist would wear. The accompanying bright orange gloves should, by all laws of nature as they are currently known to Mankind, clash horrifically, but Viktor manages to pull them off flawlessly. No one is very surprised at this.

Viktor helps Yuuri into his vest, then hands him gloves of his own. Black, of course. Something odd comes over him, almost as though he’s preparing to glide out onto the ice to begin his Eros routine, and he takes the gloves almost coyly, the corner of his mouth curving with just the slightest hint of tease. Viktor’s own smile falters slightly, his eyes suddenly sharp, like an animal that’s scented the hunt, but just before his hand can come up to tilt Yuuri’s face towards his, one of the photo shoot assistants bursts through the door to inform them that they’re kind of sort of very late.

Viktor smiles sweetly at Yuuri as the three of them file out of the room after her, trailing behind him closely enough to murmur in his ear. “You. Later.”

Before Yuuri can respond, Yurio makes a retching sound.

_“God_ , we’re in _public.”_

“For now!” Viktor chirps, very unsubtly helping himself to a handful of Yuuri’s ass. Yurio makes a sound in his throat like a dying engine, and Yuuri decides that he’s better off saying nothing.

The photo shoot, to put it lightly, is absolute hell. Viktor’s poses are too much. Yuuri’s aren’t enough. Yurio, somehow, is a natural -- scowling at the camera as though he’d love to take a swing at it if it doesn’t get the hell out of his face while also managing to look very bored. This, apparently, is ‘fashion.’

Yuuri tries this a few times, but his first attempt makes him look, in Viktor’s kindly savage words, like a grumpy chipmunk. When he tries again, carefully shaping his face into the neutral mask of deep concentration he usually wears during competitions, the director cautiously asks him if he’s ever killed a man. Yuuri supposes he ought to just stick to what seems to have been working best for him, which is the sort of wide-eyed and vaguely caught off-guard ‘who, me?’ look. It doesn't take much effort, at least.

Viktor’s poses are very chic. Yuuri thinks that’s the proper word for it. His fiancé is very dramatic, very grand and full of life, which works well during solo shots, but not so well for group photos.

They’re currently on a sofa that, under normal circumstances, would have easily and comfortably fit three people. Three people sitting normally. Viktor, in defiance of all things, as usual, decides that he’d like to be horizontal for this shot.

“I’m long,” he says to the director very matter-of-factly, “so I should be sideways. It’s basic composition.”

Yuuri sees the director grabbing fistfuls of his hair out of the corner of his eye and wonders if this is why Yakov is balding.

Viktor leans against him carefully, positioning himself so that his body stretches across the sofa. Yuuri finds himself pressed into the arm of the couch a bit uncomfortably, but he makes do as best as he can. He can’t say he really minds. Viktor is warm. And he smells nice.

Yurio is at the other end of the sofa, trapped by Viktor’s long legs. He huffs angrily and props an elbow against one of Viktor’s knees, leaning against it and scowling.

“Well, if you’re gonna be in the way, you might as well be useful.”

Once their finals poses have been settled, the first few test lighting shots taken, the cameras positioned at the right angles, attendants move forward to smooth away stray hairs and straighten out parts of their outfits.

Viktor sits up excitedly -- Yuuri can hear the director cursing somewhere beyond the blinding lights -- as one approaches them, fishing in his enormous coat for his phone.

“Hey, take a photo of us?”

After Viktor is satisfied with the results, he settles back against Yuuri’s chest, eyes closed in content as the hapless assistants decide what to do with them. One of them suggests that Viktor should be holding Yuuri’s hand, which the both of them do without any hesitation. Viktor reaches across to where Yuuri’s gloved fingers are resting against his shoulder, covering them with his own. Yuuri swears he can hear hushed sounds of sappy approval coming from various parts of the room, and he hopes his face doesn’t look quite as red as it feels.

The more photos that are taken, the more Yuuri seems to drift away. His body is carefully still, but his mind wanders. He’s hungry. He’s warm. Maybe too warm. When is this thing over?

Viktor is very warm. And he smells nice. He always smells nice. Yuuri glances down at the top of his head out of the corner of his eye. His hair is so nicely styled for the shoot, sweeping across his forehead and over his ear, with a few strands fallen artfully into his eyes. Viktor is a work of art himself -- a pure picture of high fashion, the very last word in sophisticated grace and practiced poise.

Yuuri really wants to kiss him.

So he does.

His head dips forward lazily, as if he were dozing off, and his lips press against the top of Viktor’s head. He can feel Viktor’s body stiffen suddenly in surprise, his composure slipping at Yuuri’s sudden affection. Yurio shoots him a quick warning look, the sort that says ‘well, now you’ve gone and fucked it up, asshole,’ and Yuuri has to agree. He’s made a huge mistake. He has approximately five seconds to act, but he finds himself frozen, only vaguely aware of the click and flash of cameras around them.

Viktor melts into a useless puddle, sliding down into his lap and looking up at him in pure awe and adoration.

“Yuuri! That was so _cute!”_

He reaches up to grab his face, drawing him down into a kiss that’s slow and warm, and by the time he resurfaces, he half expects the entire studio to be up in flames, the director having said 'fuck it all' and torched the place.

Yurio looks annoyed, as usual, but his mouth is twitching as though he’s trying to suppress a grin. Not a very nice grin, Yuuri realizes, his stomach dropping.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Just hope you like the new cover of the magazine, is all.”

Yuuri’s surroundings finally come crashing back to meet him, and his head whips back and forth as photographers and assistants scurry around them, shoving their cameras in each others’ faces and whispering excitedly.

“Did you get it?”

“No, this one is blurry.”

“Oh, this one! This one is _perfect!”_

“That’s the one we’re using now. People are gonna fucking _flip."_

Yuuri doesn’t have to see the photos to know which shot they’d all been fighting for, but he’s shown it anyway. His face seems to pale and flush all at once, and he buries it into Viktor’s shoulder, groaning loudly.

“This is so embarrassing!”

“No, Yuuri,” Viktor says with a chipper smile, coaxing him back up and kissing his nose, “this is _fashion.”_


End file.
